ANN GOSSAWAY'S RED CLOAK
The merrymakings at Yardley continued for weeks, a new impetus and
flavor being lent them by the arrival of two of Lucy's friends--her
schoolmate and bosom companion, Maria Collins, of Trenton, and Maria's
devoted admirer, Max Feilding, of Walnut Hill, Philadelphia.
Jane, in her joy over Lucy's home-coming, and in her desire to meet her
sister's every wish, gladly welcomed the new arrivals, although Miss
Collins, strange to say, had not made a very good impression upon her.
Max she thought better of. He was a quiet, well-bred young fellow;
older than either Lucy or Maria, and having lived abroad a year, knew
something of the outside world. Moreover, their families had always
been intimate in the old days, his ancestral home being always open to
Jane's mother when a girl.
The arrival of these two strangers only added to the general gayety.
Picnics were planned to the woods back of Warehold to which the young
people of the town were invited, and in which Billy Tatham with his
team took a prominent part. Sailing and fishing parties outside of
Barnegat were gotten up; dances were held in the old parlor, and even
tableaux were arranged under Max's artistic guidance. In one of these
Maria wore a Spanish costume fashioned out of a white lace shawl
belonging to Jane's grand-mother draped over her head and shoulders,
and made the more bewitching by a red japonica fixed in her hair, and
Lucy appeared as a dairy-maid decked out in one of Martha's caps,
altered to fit her shapely head.
The village itself was greatly stirred.
"Have you seen them two fly-up-the-creeks?" Billy Tatham, the
stage-driver, asked of Uncle Ephraim Tipple as he was driving him down
to the boat-landing.
"No, what do they look like?"
"The He-one had on a two-inch hat with a green ribbon and wore a white
bob-tail coat that 'bout reached to the top o' his pants. Looks like he
lived on water-crackers and milk, his skin's that white. The She-one
had a set o' hoops on her big as a circus tent. Much as I could do to
git her in the 'bus--as it was, she come in sideways. And her trunk!
Well, it oughter been on wheels--one o' them travellin' houses. I
thought one spell I'd take the old plug out the shafts and hook on to
it and git it up that-a-way."
"Some of Lucy's chums, I guess," chuckled Uncle Ephraim. "Miss Jane
told me they were coming. How long are they going to stay?"
"Dunno. Till they git fed up and fattened, maybe. If they was mine I'd
have killin' time to-day."
Ann Gossaway and some of her cronies also gave free rein to their
tongues.
"Learned them tricks at a finishin' school, did they?" broke out the
dressmaker. (Lucy had been the only young woman in Warehold who had
ever enjoyed that privilege.) "Wearin' each other's hats, rollin' round
in the sand, and hollerin' so you could hear 'em clear to the
lighthouse. If I had my way I'd finish 'em, And that's where they'll
git if they don't mind, and quick, too!"
The Dellenbaughs, Cromartins, and Bunsbys, being of another class,
viewed the young couple's visit in a different light. "Mr. Feilding has
such nice hands and wears such lovely cravats," the younger Miss
Cromartin said, and "Miss Collins is too sweet for anything." Prim Mr.
Bunsby, having superior notions of life and deportment, only shook his
head. He looked for more dignity, he said; but then this Byronic young
man had not been invited to any of the outings.
In all these merrymakings and outings Lucy was the central figure. Her
beauty, her joyous nature, her freedom from affectation and
conventionality, her love of the out-of-doors, her pretty clothes and
the way she wore them, all added to her popularity. In the swing and
toss of her freedom, her true temperament developed. She was like a
summer rose, making everything and everybody glad about her, loving the
air she breathed as much for the color it put into her cheeks as for
the new bound it gave to her blood. Just as she loved the sunlight for
its warmth and the dip and swell of the sea for its thrill. So, too,
when the roses were a glory of bloom, not only would she revel in the
beauty of the blossoms, but intoxicated by their color and fragrance,
would bury her face in the wealth of their abundance, taking in great
draughts of their perfume, caressing them with her cheeks, drinking in
the honey of their petals.
This was also true of her voice--a rich, full, vibrating voice, that
dominated the room and thrilled the hearts of all who heard her. When
she sang she sang as a bird sings, as much to relieve its own
overcharged little body, full to bursting with the music in its soul,
as to gladden the surrounding woods with its melody--because, too, she
could not help it and because the notes lay nearest her bubbling heart
and could find their only outlet through the lips.
Bart was her constant companion. Under his instructions she had learned
to hold the tiller in sailing in and out of the inlet; to swim over
hand; to dive from a plank, no matter how high the jump; and to join in
all his outdoor sports. Lucy had been his constant inspiration in all
of this. She had surveyed the field that first night of their meeting
and had discovered that the young man's personality offered the only
material in Warehold available for her purpose. With him, or someone
like him--one who had leisure and freedom, one who was quick and strong
and skilful (and Bart was all of these)--the success of her summer
would be assured. Without him many of her plans could not be carried
out.
And her victory over him had been an easy one. Held first by the spell
of her beauty and controlled later by her tact and stronger will, the
young man's effrontery--almost impudence at times--had changed to a
certain respectful subservience, which showed itself in his constant
effort to please and amuse her. When they were not sailing they were
back in the orchard out of sight of the house, or were walking together
nobody knew where. Often Bart would call for her immediately after
breakfast, and the two would pack a lunch-basket and be gone all day,
Lucy arranging the details of the outing, and Bart entering into them
with a dash and an eagerness which, to a man of his temperament,
cemented the bond between them all the closer. Had they been two fabled
denizens of the wood--she a nymph and he a dryad--they could not have
been more closely linked with sky and earth.
As for Jane, she watched the increasing intimacy with alarm. She had
suddenly become aroused to the fact that Lucy's love affair with Bart
was going far beyond the limits of prudence. The son of Captain
Nathaniel Holt, late of the Black Ball Line of packets, would always be
welcome as a visitor at the home, the captain being an old and tried
friend of her father's; but neither Bart's education nor prospects,
nor, for that matter, his social position--a point which usually had
very little weight with Jane--could possibly entitle him to ask the
hand of the granddaughter of Archibald Cobden in marriage. She began to
regret that she had thrown them together. Her own ideas of reforming
him had never contemplated any such intimacy as now existed between the
young man and her sister. The side of his nature which he had always
shown her had been one of respectful attention to her wishes; so much
so that she had been greatly encouraged in her efforts to make
something more of him than even his best friends predicted could be
done; but she had never for one instant intended that her friendly
interest should go any further, nor could she have conceived of such an
issue.
And yet Jane did nothing to prevent the meetings and outings of the
young couple, even after Maria's and Max's departure.
When Martha, in her own ever-increasing anxiety, spoke of the growing
intimacy she looked grave, but she gave no indication of her own
thoughts. Her pride prevented her discussing the situation with the old
nurse and her love for Lucy from intervening in her pleasures.
"She has been cooped up at school so long, Martha, dear," she answered
in extenuation, "that I hate to interfere in anything she wants to do.
She is very happy; let her alone. I wish, though, she would return some
of the calls of these good people who have been so kind to her. Perhaps
she will if you speak to her. But don't worry about Bart; that will
wear itself out. All young girls must have their love-affairs."
Jane's voice had lacked the ring of true sincerity when she spoke about
"wearing itself out," and Martha had gone to her room more dissatisfied
than before. This feeling became all the more intense when, the next
day, from her window she watched Bart tying on Lucy's hat, puffing out
the big bow under her chin, smoothing her hair from the flying strings.
Lucy's eyes were dancing, her face turned toward Bart's, her pretty
lips near his own. There was a knot or a twist, or a collection of
knots and twists, or perhaps Bart's fingers bungled, for minutes passed
before the hat could be fastened to suit either of them. Martha's head
had all this time been thrust out of the easement, her gaze apparently
fixed on a birdcage hung from a hook near the shutter.
Bart caught her eye and whispered to Lucy that that "old spy-cat" was
watching them; whereupon Lucy faced about, waved her hand to the old
nurse, and turning quickly, raced up the orchard and out of sight,
followed by Bart carrying a shawl for them to sit upon.
After that Martha, unconsciously, perhaps, to herself, kept watch, so
far as she could, upon their movements, without, as she thought,
betraying herself: making excuses to go to the village when they two
went off together in that direction; traversing the orchard, ostensibly
looking for Meg when she knew all the time that the dog was sound
asleep in the woodshed; or yielding to a sudden desire to give the
rascal a bath whenever Lucy announced that she and Bart were going to
spend the morning down by the water.
As the weeks flew by and Lucy had shown no willingness to assume her
share of any of the responsibilities of the house,--any that interfered
with her personal enjoyment,--Jane became more and more restless and
unhappy. The older village people had shown her sister every attention,
she said to herself,--more than was her due, considering her
youth,--and yet Lucy had never crossed any one of their thresholds. She
again pleaded with the girl to remember her social duties and to pay
some regard to the neighbors who had called upon her and who had shown
her so much kindness; to which the happy-hearted sister had laughed
back in reply:
"What for, you dear sister? These old fossils don't want to see me, and
I'm sure I don't want to see them. Some of them give me the shivers,
they are so prim."
It was with glad surprise, therefore, that Jane heard Lucy say in
Martha's hearing one bright afternoon:
"Now, I'm going to begin, sister, and you won't have to scold me any
more. Everyone of these old tabbies I will take in a row: Mrs.
Cavendish first, and then the Cromartins, and the balance of the bunch
when I can reach them. I am going to Rose Cottage to see Mrs. Cavendish
this very afternoon."
The selection of Mrs. Cavendish as first on her list only increased
Jane's wonder. Rose Cottage lay some two miles from Warehold, near the
upper end of the beach, and few of their other friends lived near it.
Then again, Jane knew that Lucy had not liked the doctor's calling her
into the house the night of her arrival, and had heretofore made one
excuse after another when urged to call on his mother. Her delight,
therefore, over Lucy's sudden sense of duty was all the more keen.
"I'll go with you, darling," she answered, slipping her arm about
Lucy's waist, "and we'll take Meg for a walk."
So they started, Lucy in her prettiest frock and hat and Jane with her
big red cloak over her arm to protect the young girl from the breeze
from the sea, which in the early autumn was often cool, especially if
they should sit out on Mrs. Cavendish's piazza.
The doctor's mother met them on the porch. She had seen them enter the
garden gate, and had left her seat by the window, and was standing on
the top step to welcome them. Rex, as usual, in the doctor's absence,
did the honors of the office. He loved Jane, and always sprang straight
at her, his big paws resting on her shoulders. These courtesies,
however, he did not extend to Meg. The high-bred setter had no other
salutation for the clay-colored remnant than a lifting of his nose, a
tightening of his legs, and a smothered growl when Meg ventured too
near his lordship.
"Come up, my dear, and let me look at you," were Mrs. Cavendish's first
words of salutation to Lucy. "I hear you have quite turned the heads of
all the gallants in Warehold. John says you are very beautiful, and you
know the doctor is a good judge, is he not, Miss Jane?" she added,
holding out her hands to them both. "And he's quite right; you are just
like your dear mother, who was known as the Rose of Barnegat long
before you were born. Shall we sit here, or will you come into my
little salon for a cup of tea?" It was always a salon to Mrs.
Cavendish, never a "sitting-room."
"Oh, please let me sit here," Lucy answered, checking a rising smile at
the word, "the view is so lovely," and without further comment or any
reference to the compliments showered upon her, she took her seat upon
the top step and began to play with Rex, who had already offered to
make friends with her, his invariable habit with well-dressed people.
Jane meanwhile improved the occasion to ask the doctor's mother about
the hospital they were building near Barnegat, and whether she and one
or two of the other ladies at Warehold would not be useful as visitors,
and, perhaps, in case of emergency, as nurses.
While the talk was in progress Lucy sat smoothing Rex's silky ears,
listening to every word her hostess spoke, watching her gestures and
the expressions that crossed her face, and settling in her mind for all
time, after the manner of young girls, what sort of woman the doctor's
mother might be; any opinions she might have had two years before being
now outlawed by this advanced young woman in her present mature
judgment.
In that comprehensive glance, with the profound wisdom of her seventeen
summers to help her, she had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cavendish
was a high-strung, nervous, fussy little woman of fifty, with an
outward show of good-will and an inward intention to rip everybody up
the back who opposed her; proud of her home, of her blood, and of her
son, and determined, if she could manage it, to break off his
attachment for Jane, no matter at what cost. This last Lucy caught from
a peculiar look in the little old woman's eyes and a slightly scornful
curve of the lower lip as she listened to Jane's talk about the
hospital, all of which was lost on "plain Jane Cobden," as the doctor's
mother invariably called her sister behind her back.
Then the young mind-reader turned her attention to the house and
grounds and the buildings lying above and before her, especially to the
way the matted vines hung to the porches and clambered over the roof
and dormers. Later on she listened to Mrs. Cavendish's description of
its age and ancestry: How it had come down to her from her grandfather,
whose large estate was near Trenton, where as a girl she had spent her
life; how in those days it was but a small villa to which old Nicholas
Erskine, her great-uncle, would bring his guests when the August days
made Trenton unbearable; and how in later years under the big trees
back of the house and over the lawn--"you can see them from where you
sit, my dear"--tea had been served to twenty or more of "the first
gentlemen and ladies of the land."
Jane had heard it all a dozen times before, and so had every other
visitor at Rose Cottage, but to Lucy it was only confirmation of her
latter-day opinion of her hostess. Nothing, however, could be more
gracious than the close attention which the young girl gave Mrs.
Cavendish's every word when the talk was again directed to her, bending
her pretty head and laughing at the right time--a courtesy which so
charmed the dear lady that she insisted on giving first Lucy, and then
Jane, a bunch of roses from her "own favorite bush" before the two
girls took their leave.
With these evidences of her delight made clear, Lucy pushed Rex from
her side--he had become presuming and had left the imprint of his dusty
paw upon her spotless frock--and with the remark that she had other
visits to pay, her only regret being that this one was so short, she
got up from her seat on the step, called Meg, and stood waiting for
Jane with some slight impatience in her manner.
Jane immediately rose from her chair. She had been greatly pleaded at
the impression Lucy had made. Her manner, her courtesy, her respect for
the older woman, her humoring her whims, show her to be the daughter of
a Cobden. As to her own place during the visit, she had never given it
a thought. She would always be willing to act as foil to her
accomplished, brilliant sister if by so doing she could make other
people love Lucy the more.
As they walked through the doctor's study, Mrs. Cavendish preceding
them, Jane lingered for a moment and gave a hurried glance about her.
There stood his chair and his lounge where he had thrown himself so
often when tired out. There, too, was the closet where he hung his coat
and hat, and the desk covered with books and papers. A certain feeling
of reverence not unmixed with curiosity took possession of her, as when
one enters a sanctuary in the absence of the priest. For an instant she
passed her hand gently over the leather back of the chair where his
head rested, smoothing it with her fingers. Then her eyes wandered over
the room, noting each appointment in detail. Suddenly a sense of
injustice rose in her mind as she thought that nothing of beauty had
ever been added to these plain surroundings; even the plants in the
boxes by the windows looked half faded. With a quick glance at the open
door she slipped a rose from the bunch in her hand, leaned over, and
with the feeling of a devotee laying an offering on the altar, placed
the flower hurried on the doctor's slate. Then she joined Mrs.
Cavendish.
Lucy walked slowly from the gate, her eyes every now and then turned to
the sea. When she and Jane had reached the cross-road that branched off
toward the beach--it ran within sight of Mrs. Cavendish's windows--Lucy
said:
"The afternoon is so lovely I'm not going to pay any more visits,
sister. Suppose I go to the beach and give Meg a bath. You won't mind,
will you? Come, Meg!"
"Oh, how happy you will make him!" cried Jane. "But you are not dressed
warm enough, dearie. You know how cool it gets toward evening. Here,
take my cloak. Perhaps I'd better go with you--"
"No, do you keep on home. I want to see if the little wretch will be
contented with me alone. Good-by," and without giving her sister time
to protest, she called to Meg, and with a wave of her hand, the red
cloak flying from her shoulders, ran toward the beach, Meg bounding
after her.
Jane waved back in answer, and kept her eyes on the graceful figure
skipping along the road, her head and shoulders in silhouette against
the blue sea, her white skirts brushing the yellow grass of the
sand-dune. All the mother-love in her heart welled up in her breast.
She was so proud of her, so much in love with her, so thankful for her!
All these foolish love affairs and girl fancies would soon be over and
Bart and the others like him out of Lucy's mind and heart. Why worry
about it? Some great strong soul would come by and by and take this
child in his arms and make a woman of her. Some strong soul--
She stopped short in her walk and her thoughts went back to the red
rose lying on the doctor's desk.
"Will he know?" she said to herself; "he loves flowers so, and I don't
believe anybody ever puts one on his desk. Poor fellow! how hard he
works and how good he is to everybody! Little Tod would have died but
for his tenderness." Then, with a prayer in her heart and a new light
in her eyes, she kept on her way.
Lucy, as she bounded along the edge of the bluff, Meg scurrying after
her, had never once lost sight of her sister's slender figure. When a
turn in the road shut her from view, she crouched down behind a
sand-dune, waited until she was sure Jane would not change her mind and
join her, and then folding the cloak over her arm, gathered up her
skirts and ran with all her speed along the wet sand to the House of
Refuge. As she reached its side, Bart Holt stepped out into the
afternoon light.
"I thought you'd never come, darling," he said, catching her in his
arms and kissing her.
"I couldn't help it, sweetheart. I told sister I was going to see Mrs.
Cavendish, and she was so delighted she said she would go, too."
"Where is she?" he interrupted, turning his head and looking anxiously
up the beach.
"Gone home. Oh, I fixed that. I was scared to death for a minute, but
you trust me when I want to get off."
"Why didn't you let her take that beast of a dog with her? We don't
want him," he rejoined, pointing to Meg, who had come to a sudden
standstill at the sight of Bart.
"Why, you silly! That's how I got away. She thought I was going to give
him a bath. How long have you been waiting, my precious?" Her hand was
on his shoulder now, her eyes raised to his.
"Oh, 'bout a year. It really seems like a year, Luce" (his pet name for
her), "when I'm waiting for you. I was sure something was up. Wait till
I open the door." The two turned toward the house.
"Why! can we get in? I thought Fogarty, the fisherman, had the key,"
she asked, with a tone of pleasant surprise in her voice.
"So he has," he laughed. "Got it now hanging up behind his clock. I
borrowed it yesterday and had one made just like it. I'm of age." This
came with a sly wink, followed by a low laugh of triumph.
Lucy smiled. She liked his daring; she liked, too, his resources. When
a thing was to be done, Bart always found the way to do it. She waited
until he had fitted the new bright key into the rusty lock, her hand in
his.
"Now, come inside," he cried, swinging wide the big doors. "Isn't it a
jolly place?" He slipped his arm about her and drew her to him. "See,
there's the stove with the kindling-wood all ready to light when
anything comes ashore, and up on that shelf are life-preservers; and
here's a table and some stools and a lantern--two of 'em; and there's
the big life-boat, all ready to push out. Good place to come Sundays
with some of the fellows, isn't it? Play all night here, and not a soul
would find you out," he chuckled as he pointed to the different things.
"You didn't think, now, I was going to have a cubby-hole like this to
hide you in where that old spot-cat Martha can't be watching us, did
you?" he added, drawing her toward him and again kissing her with a
sudden intensity.
Lucy slipped from his arms and began examining everything with the
greatest interest. She had never seen anything but the outside of the
house before and she always wondered what it contained, and as a child
had stood up on her toes and tried to peep in through the crack of the
big door. When she had looked the boat all over and felt the oars, and
wondered whether the fire could be lighted quick enough, and pictured
in her mind the half-drowned people huddled around it in their
sea-drenched clothes, she moved to the door. Bart wanted her to sit
down inside, but she refused.
"No, come outside and lie on the sand. Nobody comes along here," she
insisted. "Oh, see how beautiful the sea is! I love that green," and
drawing Jane's red cloak around her, she settled herself on the sand,
Bart throwing himself at her feet.
The sun was now nearing the horizon, and its golden rays fell across
their faces. Away off on the sky-line trailed the smoke of an incoming
steamer; nearer in idled a schooner bound in to Barnegat Inlet with
every sail set. At their feet the surf rose sleepily under the gentle
pressure of the incoming tide, its wavelets spreading themselves in
widening circles as if bent on kissing the feet of the radiant girl.
As they sat and talked, filled with the happiness of being alone, their
eyes now on the sea and now looking into each other's, Meg, who had
amused himself by barking at the swooping gulls, chasing the sand-snipe
and digging holes in the sand for imaginary muskrats, lifted his head
and gave a short yelp. Bart, annoyed by the sound, picked up a bit of
driftwood and hurled it at him, missing him by a few inches. The
narrowness of the escape silenced the dog and sent him to the rear with
drooping tail and ears.
Bart should have minded Meg's warning. A broad beach in the full glare
of the setting sun, even when protected by a House of Refuge, is a poor
place to be alone in.
A woman was passing along the edge of the bluffs, carrying a basket in
one hand and a green umbrella in the other; a tall, thin, angular
woman, with the eye of a ferret. It was Ann Gossaway's day for visiting
the sick, and she had just left Fogarty's cabin, where little Tod, with
his throat tied up in red flannel, had tried on her mitts and played
with her spectacles. Miss Gossaway had heard Meg's bark and had been
accorded a full view of Lucy's back covered by Jane's red cloak, with
Bart sitting beside her, their shoulders touching.
Lovers with their heads together interested the gossip no longer,
except as a topic to talk about. Such trifles had these many years
passed out of the dress-maker's life.
So Miss Gossaway, busy with her own thoughts, kept on her way unnoticed
by either Lucy or Bart.
When she reached the cross-road she met Doctor John driving in. He
tightened the reins on the sorrel and stopped.
"Lovely afternoon, Miss Gossaway. Where are you from--looking at the
sunset?"
"No, I ain't got no time for spoonin'. I might be if I was Miss Jane
and Bart Holt. Just see 'em a spell ago squattin' down behind the House
o' Refuge. She wouldn't look at me. I been to Fogarty's; she's on my
list this week, and it's my day for visitin', fust in two weeks. That
two-year-old of hers is all right ag'in after your sewing him up;
they'll never get over tellin' how you set up all night with him. You
ought to hear Mrs. Fogarty go on--'Oh, the goodness of him!'" and she
mimicked the good woman's dialect. "'If Tod'd been his own child he
couldn't a-done more for him.' That's the way she talks. I heard,
doctor, ye never left him till daylight. You're a wonder."
The doctor touched his hat and drove on.
Miss Gossaway's sharp, rasping voice and incisive manner of speaking
grated upon him. He liked neither her tone nor the way in which she
spoke of the mistress of Yardley. No one else dared as much. If Jane
was really on the beach and with Bart, she had some good purpose in her
mind. It may have been her day for visiting, and Bart, perhaps, had
accompanied her. But why had Miss Gossaway not met Miss Cobden at
Fogarty's, his being the only cabin that far down the beach? Then his
face brightened. Perhaps, after all, it was Lucy whom she had seen. He
had placed that same red cloak around her shoulders the night of the
reception at Yardley--and when she was with Bart, too.
Mrs. Cavendish was sitting by her window when the doctor entered his
own house. She rose, and putting down her book, advanced to meet him.
"You should have come earlier, John," she said with a laugh; "such a
charming girl and so pretty and gracious. Why, I was quite overcome.
She is very different from her sister. What do you think Miss Jane
wants to do now? Nurse in the new hospital when it is built! Pretty
position for a lady, isn't it?"
"Any position she would fill would gain by her presence," said the
doctor gravely. "Have they been gone long?" he asked, changing the
subject. He never discussed Jane Cobden with his mother if he could
help it.
"Oh, yes, some time. Lucy must have kept on home, for I saw Miss Jane
going toward the beach alone."
"Are you sure, mother?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
"Yes, certainly. She had that red cloak of hers with her and that
miserable little dog; that's how I know. She must be going to stay
late. You look tired, my son; have you had a hard day?" added she,
kissing him on the cheek.
"Yes, perhaps I am a little tired, but I'll be all right. Have you
looked at the slate lately? I'll go myself," and he turned and entered
his office.
On the slate lay the rose. He picked it up and held it to his nose in a
preoccupied way.
"One of mother's," he said listlessly, laying it back among his papers.
"She so seldom does that sort of thing. Funny that she should have
given it to me to-day; and after Miss Jane's visit, too." Then he shut
the office door, threw himself into his chair, and buried his face in
his hands. He was still there when his mother called him to supper.
When Lucy reached home it was nearly dark. She came alone, leaving Bart
at the entrance to the village. At her suggestion they had avoided the
main road and had crossed the marsh by the foot-path, the dog bounding
on ahead and springing at the nurse, who stood in the gate awaiting
Lucy's return.
"Why, he's as dry as a bone!" Martha cried, stroking Meg's rough hair
with her plump hand. "He didn't get much of a bath, did he?"
"No, I couldn't get him into the water. Every time I got my hand on him
he'd dart away again."
"Anybody on the beach, darlin'?"
"Not a soul except Meg and the sandsnipe."